


Crooked house

by Ruler_of_Nope_Island



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Class Issues, F/M, Gothic Nonsense, Haunting, I tried to fix it but made it worse, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Sexual Content, Kleptomania, M/M, Melodrama, More Pairings to Come - Freeform, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Suicide, They survive, everyone is terrible, more warnings to come, people having a terrible time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-04 02:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15832263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruler_of_Nope_Island/pseuds/Ruler_of_Nope_Island
Summary: Francis Crozier leads the Arctic Expedition to safety. He buys a house for his new wife.  But something of the Arctic has followed him home...My take on a gothic/haunted house story





	1. Sophia Crozier

**Author's Note:**

> “Journeys end in lovers meeting; I have spent an all but sleepless night, I have told lies and made a fool of myself, and the very air tastes like wine. I have been frightened half out of my foolish wits, but I have somehow earned this joy; I have been waiting for it for so long.”
> 
> -Shirley Jackson, The haunting of Hill House

...and after they were all delivered from the Arctic, and happily back in England, and safe and warm, Sophia Cracroft finally succumbed to Captain Crozier’s courting. The hero of the Arctic deserved a happy ending and he was sure he found it. That Sir John was a heroic martyr instead of Crozier’s implacable obstacle may have helped but that is the invention of malice, rather than any statement of fact.

Mrs. Crozier tries not to think about it. She is helped by the sheer amount of things she has to consider; maids (London or keep the local girls on) housekeepers (Aunt Jane has a list of candidates), new wallpaper (or repair that old panelling) a new cook (Francis is fond of Mr. Diggle; although he is heroic he is certainly not suitable) and beyond that: linens, crockery, plate, curtains, rugs, glassware - and so much more, all the things that a man who could pack his life into two drawers would never even consider necessary to running a home. 

A nursemaid, too - although that should wait. Wait until she was very sure. It has only been two months since the wedding and despite everything she couldn’t imagine they would be that lucky. After all, sheiis not young and it would be cruel to a man who breathes hope - she stares out of the window, looking at the neglected garden and thinking of how nice it would be this time next year. High summer. Flowers and bees. Birdsong. Picnics and parties. Perhaps Aunt Jane would visit. 

Francis bought them a house in the country. She is sitting in its parlour now. It is not old enough to be distinguished and not new enough to be fashionable; there is a bit too much dark wood and not big enough widows or rooms and the stairs are steep but it is pleasant enough. The summer being hot as it is she enjoys the coolness of the rooms, although that will need to be remedied by winter. There are many things to do before the house is presentable.

It’s not that she minds being away from her Aunt Jane or their circle and the noise and dirt of London. She would have certainly liked to have been consulted a little more but Francis had been so excited when he’d talked of it and she’d broken his heart enough for one lifetime. He’d talked of the trees and the park and the river near it where he could take his dearest friends fishing - had he shown interest in the sport before? Perhaps the influence of James - and it was so green and lush and alive.

And so far away from the sea. Mrs Crozier considers the exotic animals lifted from their jungle homes to be the pets of the fashionable set; of the tropical plants in Kew gardens and other such beings that had been taken away from their natural habitats and transplanted elsewhere. With varying degrees of success, of course; one of her friends’ pet monkeys now lived on as a pen holder. Will Francis be a little Jacko, fighting to the last in the Arctic cold, or live on as a stuffed curiosity? Time would tell. And since they were married, she was sure she could guide his journey. 

She should not be so pliable, Aunt Jane had said. She was too willing to bend to Francis’s wishes and Francis, while undeniably a brave and gallant man, had grown a little eccentric since his return. Mrs. Crozier had retorted that a man who had suffered so was allowed to be a little odd in his ways, as long as he did all of the things a loving husband should. She should allow him his comforts.

 

Francis had so few. He liked his whiskey and his friends from the Erebus and Terror; those who survived with him. He kept his steward on as his personal servant; a mixture of valet and secretary. James Fitzjames, formerly the most handsome man in the navy, now the most desirable dinner guest in England. Then John Irving, a godly and serious young man. Apart from Mr. Diggle there was a Henry Collins who needed an occupation - that was left in Mrs. Crozier’s hands but it was very important to Francis that the man be given a home.

It was not that they were bad men or even bad company but Sophia longs for new faces. Perhaps James could be enticed into staying by matching him with one of the local gentry; their local vicar had enough daughters for Irving to have his pick. Henry Collins would be gently enveloped into the world of kitchens and stables. That means they could be close but not always in the house; with homes of their own they would not always need to be in hers. 

That left Jopson, Francis’s former steward. Mrs. Crozier finds herself feeling less than Christian about the man. She dislikes the ambiguity of his position and resents his intimacy with her husband. For god’s sake, he’d had Francis to himself for three years. Could he not relinquish Francis now? But the man had no family and did not want to serve anymore. So he haunts the house, a disapproving slip of a man who had been handsome, once; Francis says Jopson cannot hear a woman laugh -something to do with the man’s mother - which annoys her. It is her house and she will not stifle her amusements for a servant. And James is amusing, even now.

She’d written to Aunt Jane who had replied that she should consider that she might have a husband problem rather than a servant problem. Servant problems usually resolved themselves; husband problems were permanent if one wasn’t careful. Mrs. Crozier bowed to her experience on the matter.

Mrs Crozier knows she should turn in for bed; it is likely to be a long day tomorrow. She’d been reading in the parlour all day, rather than working on her lists but Francis had vanished off with his friends earlier in the evening to drink some wine by the river so she thought she was allowed the leisure time. Besides, it was too nice a day to spend all of it on housekeeping. The servants must have thought so; all day she’s heard running up and down the stairs but no work had been done for the amount of movement. And she saw a man out in the garden, near a copse of trees she had marked for cutting down. 

At first she’d taken him for one of Francis’s hangers-on; but he’d been careful in his introductions and she could not remember a red-headed man among them. One of the locals, then; perhaps looking for his sweetheart. That she could forgive. Waiting for Francis after hearing the news of his survival had been almost unbearable. It had taken all of her self control not to throw herself into his arms. Let lovers be lovers. It hurt no one. She wished them a pleasant evening, this handsome red-head and his young lass. He’d even waved to her.  
The halls are dim; she must have a word with the maids about when they should light the lamps. The previous owners had left some of their own mirrors on the walls, which was odd. James had said - they were friends of his - that they’d left in a hurry, but had not elaborated on why. Perhaps debt, perhaps scandal. She would write to one of her London friends and make inquiries. 

There it was again - that running down the stairs. Sweethearts or no, there would be none of that commotion in the house. She hears footsteps thundering down and assumes that the miscreant would have to meet her in the hall - there was nowhere else for them to go - and prepares what she hoped would be a stern expression.

But noone comes. Mrs. Crozier feels distinctly unsettled. She walks towards the staircase, which is full of murky shadows.

“Who’s there?” 

“Ma’am?” Jopson’s voice floats down from upstairs. Mrs Crozier asks if any of the maids were upstairs with him. The reply is an emphatic and obviously offended denial.   
He really was hard to bear, that man - by rights he should come down to talk to her. That sort of thing may have been acceptable in the navy but they were not on a ship anymore. She is the mistress of this house. 

She makes her way upstairs, careful of her skirts . If Jopson is there then it means that Francis will not be back until dark; it is Jopson’s habit to stay behind and prepare things for Francis’s ease. Francis remarked once that loyalty could not be bought. In Mrs. Crozier’s experience it could be paid for if you were willing to be generous. Jopson would probably do it for nothing. It is an uncomfortable thought. 

It is so hard with him always there. As a newly married couple there had been a few languorous mornings in bed but Francis slept so poorly that sleeping in the same bed was not a comfortable option for either. She entertains wicked thoughts of dismissing Jobson and slipping into his bed anyway but that was likely to cause awkwardness. The morning was out of the question as Jopson was always up to wake him.

Perhaps when she has her own maid and more acquaintance with the local ladies she won’t feel so alone. She understands that her company might not always be to Francis’s taste but she couldn’t believe that after fighting for her for so long he would disdain her completely. She feels with a touch of guilt, that she deserved more censure from him than she had received but he was so adamant that they were leaving the past behind them. 

It was then that Mrs. Crozier decides that she would tell him. If it comes to nothing then their hearts would break but it was better than -

She knocks on Francis’s bedroom door. She is mistress in this house and Francis’s wife and perhaps the mother of his child so Jopson has to defer to her and let -

No response. 

“Jopson?” She tries to keep the irritation out of her voice. 

Silence.

She opens the door. The room is empty. Everything is neatly laid out for Francis’s return and the window is open but there is no one there. Still she calls out for Jopson and of course he does not answer. She turns and, in the half-light of dusk coming through the windows, sees very clearly a thin figure walk past the door.

“Jopson!” She calls. “Jopson?”

Back out into the hall. That too is empty. It isn’t like there was anywhere to hide so he must have gone back downstairs but there had been no sound of footsteps on that ancient staircase. She stands at the top of the stairs, thinking hard about what she will say to Francis when he came home.

But suddenly hands grasp her shoulders. And more quickly still she feels them slide to the middle of her back.

And then she feels herself falling forward.

And then she feels nothing at all.


	2. James Fitzjames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” 
> 
> ― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

James yawns. The dusk is turning slowly to night; the birds’ calling is slowly falling into quiet and the wind is picking up.   
“I might turn in, old man,” he says to Francis. They’ve been drinking for a good few hours now; he is desperately hungry and the flies are starting to bite. Francis, god help him, could keep going for hours, and keep Collins with him. James feels they must oblige their hostess and return her husband not too much the worse for drink. Irving - no, John, they are not in the navy anymore - is also starting to nod off. 

“Fine, fine,” Francis waves a hand. “Tell m’wife that I’ll be back soon.”

He will do no such thing. He feels a great deal of sympathy for the new Mrs. Crozier. Francis had survived on the bottles they’d brought from the ships on that march through the frozen hell but he never quite dried out. There had been a valiant attempt in the months before the wedding -Thomas had the patience of a saint - but they had given up. They had escaped the Arctic. Now it was simply a question of escaping the memory of what they’d done there -

Francis turns back to Collins and they continue talking. It won’t do for Francis to keep company with his groundskeeper or whatever Collins is supposed to be. But that’s up to Mrs. Crozier to enforce and James knows she’ll be equal to the task. There’s an admirable steel to her that James enjoys. A flash of wit and humour. Lord knows she’ll need it. Francis is half-mad in his lovesickness but that doesn’t make him good company. How bored the poor woman will be. 

They had all been holding forth on the subject of women; Francis had expressed disbelief at the amount of “knicknackery” Mrs. Crozier had brought with her. According to Collins and Irving this was just how women were. How either of them came to be such experts was a mystery to James but he’d said nothing. He must have made some expression because when he turned to Jopson to get his glass refilled there had been a frown on the man’s face. James had winked. Jopson had blushed. And both of them knew that James would leave his window unlocked tonight. Jopson had left shortly after, to check on the house. 

He has to pass through the little copse of trees to get back to the house; the lawns are half jungle and the path had been eaten by the grass and wildflowers. Perhaps Francis should take up gardening. He thinks, rather unkindly, of the unlikeliness of Francis being able to make anything bloom. Especially on observing Mrs. Crozier’s face at breakfast.

There were twelve trees in the copse. Twelve and one half-hacked trunk. They looked to be old and were more suited to firewood than - damn, that was a cold wind that came up. It must be a brisk one indeed to reach him between the tree trunks. Odd, too, in high summer.   
He pauses for a moment, regards the house; he can see his own lit window and a maid drawing the curtains across. There is another tree, right up against the house, which provides easy access; why, any sailor could climb this old heap as easily as rigging. 

There is a roar of laughter from down by the riverbank; he turns his head and almost smacks his head against a tree as he trips. But not on a root. Instead there is a rock. Of course it’s not strange to find a rock in such an overgrown mess of a garden but this one looks like - like - when the ice - it doesn’t look like a commonplace rock found in an English garden. It is smooth and brown and stained with red. Three years ago Tozer had turned to him, a similar rock in hand, and stated, quite matter of fact, that they would need the ammunition for the hunting. His face and the front of his slops were splattered with droplets of crimson -

His heart almost stops when he hears shouting from the house. 

“Sir! Sir!” It’s Jopson’s voice and it is full of panic. Surely he is not back in England - no, they could not have escaped, they must be back on the ice and this is all a strange dream. He closes his eyes, waiting to feel the cold wind again. 

“Sir?”

James opens his eyes. It is not Tozer in front of him but Jopson. 

“Mrs Crozier is unwell -” he says. In the gloom of the copse James can barely make out his expression. “She has fallen down the stairs.”

“Good god - is someone with her?”

“The maid, Sir. ”

“Has a doctor been called?”

“I was about to ask the Captain if -”

“Yes, Thomas. He is exactly in his right mind to be dealing with a crisis.”

“She may have just fainted,” Jopson murmurs. 

“I wouldn’t like to take that chance. Go and get sober him enough that the doctor can tell which one needs his visit.”

The house is full of panic; Mrs Crozier has been laid out on a couch in the parlour. She’s breathing and nothing seems to be broken but is not stirring. Since he’s the only man in the house who can ride and certainly the only man sober enough to make such a journey he sets out for the doctor himself, after getting directions from one of the maids. 

This is familiar, James thinks, as he rides down the road. Francis drunk and I am in command. But what is not familiar - what is really quite strange and upsetting - is the urge he has to keep riding down that road, into the enveloping dark, and not to stop until the horse is dead underneath him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were all so nice about the last chapter that I may have rushed this one out. But James's bitchy POV is very fun to write. 
> 
> I have no comment about Jopson.


	3. John Irving

The doctor has come; recommended rest for Mrs. Crozier and a hearty breakfast and cold baths for everyone else. He was a strong and cheerful man; John casts his mind back to the insipid medical men of the Erebus and Terror. What was that Doctor called? Goodman?   
He’d been an oddity, then decided to show some Christian fortitude at exactly the wrong moment. 

If only everything did not remind him of that dreadful experience. He cannot walk past a butcher’s window without a shudder. He cannot sit at a proper dinner table without remembering the many over three long years; at first they were all civilised men, washed and uniformed. Then as the situation grew more desperate, they went from naval officers to wild men - mad-eyed, unshaven, bleeding from the gums. His situation might be helped if he made some effort to move away from the little circle of survivors. If he did not see their faces every day. But perhaps God means him to suffer and who is he to deny the Lord?

Still. John was delivered. He is here, in his little guest room, curtains and window open, looking over the wilderness that is Captain Crozier’s garden. He has explained that he wishes to paint nothing but green and living things now; a suitable excuse for his presence.   
The others seem comforted by his being there. If such an excellent Christian can live with contentment then they need not worry themselves overly much. If they were sinners, they think, John would have told them so. 

There is a hunger in him that he cannot quell; he wants ripe fruit and milk and butter and warm bread. He wants beef and pork and fish caught fresh from the river. Brisk, solitary walks to him from tipping over to gluttony. His drinking with Crozier and Fitzjames is barely a blot on his conscience; if he were a better he would abstain, of course, but he is not better, merely doing his best with what the Lord has given him. 

_God gave you everything but kindness._ Those were his words, weren’t they? _His_ last words. Grey-blue eyes shining with malice. Hair so red against the grimy ice. 

Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.

Wind blows through the open window. Some nightbird screams in the darkness. John strides across to his trunk, throws open the lid. He finds the latch easily and the false top opens without a sound. 

There is a knife in here; bone handled, with a name scratched into it. Then a pile of coloured ribbons. A cheap locket. A few gold buttons. A picture of a little girl. And a scrap of blue fabric with white spots. He holds it to his nose, inhales; he fancies he can smell the sweat and blood still on it, even after a whole year. John wonders what that red hair would have felt like under his fingers.

That neckerchief was the first thing he took from that man. The first thing he ever stole. He saw no reason why the man should have anything nice. There is some part of him that believes sinners deserve nothing that would give them joy; all of these things he has taken from bad people, irreplaceable things. He heard them weeping over their loss and felt a warmth that was almost righteous. 

What shall he take from the sinners of this house? He has seen shadowy figures moving through the trees; heard soft laughter from behind closed doors and the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh as he stood beneath an open window. 

This is a trickster sort of building; when he is left to his own devices he tries to map it, matching windows to rooms to doorways. It defies him each and every time, this ugly shell of a home. Luckily Mrs. Crozier has an eye to improve, to correct, to make whole again - these sorts of things are what women like. A project. She is the kind of woman that John would like to marry - well bred, calm, intelligent, and extremely beautiful. 

One of the maids keeps looking at him. She has lovely eyes and sun-kissed cheeks and long blond curls that escape her cap. A way of catching her lip between her teeth. He wonders how many lovers she has had. She has a doxyish air. There are plenty of places to hide and much opportunity to sin, especially now Mrs. Crozier has to stay in bed for a week. Captain Crozier can hardly be expected to keep an eye on the maids. Besides all other women may as well be invisible; he only ever has eyes for his wife. No wonder. Mrs. Crozier is so lovely. So kind. John hopes he may find a wife even half as excellent as she. 

Thou shalt not covet - 

There is the notebook as well. It is battered, stained. The writing is illegible. But John knows what it meant to the person he took it from. 

Someone is whistling outside in the darkness. He feels cold stab of dread. Someone is calling up a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your welsh wigs, folks. 
> 
> It's about to get more bonkers and more explicit after this chapter.


	4. Lady Jane Franklin

*

Lydia Risby is trying to write a letter; it is hard through her tears and she barely has her letters but she must respond to the generosity of such a noble lady. Lady Jane Franklin had reached out to her after the death of Mr. Risby - expressed her condolences and telling her that, if she were ever in need of it, Lady Franklin would do everything in her power to help the sister of Thomas Hartnell who had been so brave and selfless. 

Everyone knew that Miss Cracroft and Captain Crozier were to be married and new households required new servants. Lydia knows she can get good reports from her past employers. And she is desperate. And alone. Mr Risby was barely in his grave before his creditors came calling. 

No children and good character. She is polite and discrete. But how to communicate this to Lady Franklin without seeming to brag? Mistresses dislike proud servants. And pretty ones, too - Lydia knows she is, because so many men have told her so. She is blond like Thomas was, with the same blue eyes and pale skin. She hopes she has some of his character, too. 

But no one having seen her before she goes to the house - well, she does not think Mrs. Crozier will send her away again. With Lady Franklin’s good words, perhaps she can make a new home for herself. She will throw herself on the mercy of Lady Franklin; she is sure she will not be turned away. 

 

*

John and Harry, safe at last. John wants to engrave the words in marble, set them over the door of his shop. But instead the words say “Bridgens’ Pharmacy.”  
It is strange that his life should take such a turn. That he should find his calling in the frozen wastes. But he found he had a talent for it. He prides himself on his gentle treatment of the sick and the good relationships he has formed with the local doctor. 

Harry says they should have opened a bookshop but John knows that neither of them could stand giving their books away. So a pharmacy it is. Harry mostly stays out in the back rooms, mixing orders and keeping everything in good order. When people ask they say they met in the Navy, which is true, and cousins besides, which they are not. This little town- slightly run down, with few prospects - is grateful of ‘medical men’ and that John is generous with credit. 

It’s a strange sort of heaven. During the day they sell headache cures and tooth powder and soap amongst dark wooden shelves covered in glass bottles. Everything is bright and clean and shining. The bell rings out all day. Then they retire to their rooms above the shop; a little threadbare and sometimes cold but it is enough for two. 

Then they receive a letter. Addressed to both of them. Unsigned. John reads it to Harry. And they both sit quietly, in the rooms above the shop, thinking of the happy life they have built which threatens to shatter like glass. 

“I don’t see that we have much of a choice,” Harry says, voice cracked with strain. “I don’t want to. But we must. I will not lose you again.”

“It was you who was almost lost,” John murmurs. Together they had been through all the circles of hell. What was one more? “I suppose it was too much to hope we could leave it behind us.”

“We were stupid, then.” Harry picks up the letter as if to read it again. “I’ll go. You’d be missed more.”

He throws the letter down on the table then looks at his love. 

“I’ll send a letter to Captain Crozier. Tell him that I am turned out of my lodgings and I need space to stay.”

“The city air is bad for your lungs,” John says, picking up the thought. “And you will return once you are better.”

“My doctor says it will not take long.”

“Only a few months.”

“You do not like to presume upon him or seek out his company but you will help around the house to pay for your stay.”

Line by line they construct a careful lie; say it back to each other, make sure it sounds true. It is a miserable experience.

“We’re not used to it, I suppose,” Harry says. He will leave tomorrow. “We’ve only ever lied by omission.”

“Sometimes it is not a lie at all,” John muses. “Just trying to keep ourselves safe.”

“You’d never lie to me, would you?” Harry asks. He looks exhausted already.

“Never.”

“We lie to the world, though.”

A quote from the letter.

“But not ourselves, which is the difference between us and many of the others. We did terrible things, Harry. And now we are called to account.”

Harry leans forward to catch his mouth in a kiss. They linger; their last kiss for who knows how many months. When they first came back they barely climbed out of bed, hungry for each other. That familiar spark catches and burns; John pulls Harry closer. 

“It is not a terrible thing we do now,” he whispers and leads Harry to their bed. 

*

These men are not his friends. They laugh as loudly as any Marine but some like apes and some made the sound of breaking glass and some screeched like seagulls. This place is like a ship but not a ship. Instead of the wooden walls and the noise of water there is a cold stone floor and a pallet of straw and a bucket. But it is sometimes hot as an oven and at other times so cold his breath makes ice on the walls. The Terror was a new sort of ship. Perhaps this is another new kind of ship. One that no one has ever seen. One which will take him to strange, dangerous places. 

He is not wearing his uniform. There will be hell to pay if Sir John sees him. He is a disgrace. He is a monster. Hadn’t Commander Fitzjames said that to him? But that was a different time. Slowly, like untangling rope, he goes through all his memories. He undoes the knots. He understands what had happened and remembers how. The Lady is patient. She tells him to take his time. 

He remembers that Sir John is dead and what’s more in pieces. He remembers that there had been so much blood and that he had been blamed for it all. Mutineer, they said. Murderer. He had killed Morfin with a rock. Then Stanley had shown him the way to reduce men to pieces and call it caribou or polar bear. Stanley had said it was necessary. Everything was going rotten. The food, the men. He was a doctor. He was a good man and not a liar. He had said it had been all his idea when they were called out. 

“They must have known,” he says, to the Lady in his cell. She is a strong woman, with hard eyes and a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth. She must be real since his ghosts never worried themselves with niceties or worried how much he stank. He knew he was rank with sweat and dirt and was ashamed. 

“There was no game for miles. We marched and marched and there was nothing, no birds, no nothing. I fed Lieutenant Hodgson to the dog.”

The woman does not flinch. She must have a strong stomach. If she were a man he would admire her. 

“And you are sure they knew?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And Sir John died before all this took place?”

“He did, Ma’am.”

“And you tried to tell -”

“I was drunk, Ma’am. They said I had gone mad.”

“Are you mad, Sergeant?”

“A little bit, Ma’am. But I don’t see how I could not be a little bit mad, not after what happened.” 

She narrows her eyes. He begins to weep. Years ago - three years ago - he would not have wept at all. But it is such a relief to do so now. Only mad men cry. It’s how you know they are mad. Even if their reasons are sound. Solomon cries because he is a good man who has killed good men and lost all the things that are dearest to him. No pride, no uniform, no freedom, no Cornelius. A sane man could shoulder that, he is sure. 

“There, there -” she passes him her handkerchief. “You are an honest man, Sergeant.”

“I’m not -”

“Honest? And I came all this way because I thought you were.” She presses her lips together. 

“No, Ma’am. Not a Sergeant any more. But I am telling you the truth.”

“You would swear it before God, Mr. Tozer?”

He can see Cornelius so clearly. He remembers combing his fingers through his hair. The feeling of callused hands on his face. Rough lips against his own. Tongues, teeth. Pressed against each other in the cold arctic nights. Cornelius wasn’t Cornelius at all but Elijah and he belonged to Solomon Tozer heart and soul. Or rather, Solomon’s heart and soul belonged to Elijah. 

“I don’t think God would want anything to do with me, Ma’am.”

“Probably not. At least you’re willing to admit it. A murderer, a mutineer, and a cannibal. But not a hypocrite. And certainly not mad enough to rot here.”

“Ma’am?”

“I have connections,” she says. “I will secure your release. But you must tell no one who you are. And if you tell anyone who sent you, well - you will not be believed.” 

He laughs.

“I’m used to that, Ma’am.”

“Good. I have a proposition for you. It is very strange to think of and stranger to tell but I am very concerned about what happened to the men who did not come back-’ she stares at Solomon, “-and the character of the men who did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said shit would get weird this chapter but there were just a few more ducks I need to get into a row first.
> 
> Also I might start writing plot sometime soon, instead of pure character study.


	5. The storm (three interludes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO FUCKED UP THE CHAPTERS. 
> 
> Also, gets a bit porny.

There’s a hammering at the door. Henry’s the only one downstairs; everyone else fussing over Mrs. Crozier. He feels out of place; he’s only been in the big house to eat his meals in the kitchen. He’s too large for this small place; keeps expecting to knock things over, ram his bulk into the furniture, break all the small and precious things that make up a household. He is not fit to be here and yet here he is. The door must be opened.

So he does. And the man standing on the doorstep, dry from head to foot, smiles.

“I was wondering when someone would let me in.”

 

*

“Every time I look at you I find something new to love,” Francis whispers, confident that with the summer storm rattling the windows and that with Sophia being so deeply asleep she will not hear him. But he has never been a lucky man and her eyes open. Blue as a summer’s sky. His heart pounds in his chest.   
“Francis?”  
She smiles up at him and pulls the covers off with an unsteady hand.  
“Come to bed.”  
“You’re not well,” he says, but, damn her, there is a flush creeping across her cheeks and the small part of her chest left exposed by her nightdress. He feels his desire makes her unclean, somehow; that in doing this to her, with her, he exposes her to something dark and rotten within himself.   
“Francis -” she shifts herself up so she’s sitting. “Help me take this off. I’m too warm.”  
“I’ll open the window -”  
“Francis.”  
He feels the weight of her tone - low, sultry- pulling him towards her. She reaches for him and he leans down, feeling utterly helpless. They kiss - a little clumsily on her part, since, unlike him, she is not practiced. There has been no other than him, he thinks. No one else has seen her like this, or touched her - his hand slides under her nightgown, tracing her smooth thigh. She spreads her legs. 

Francis finds the movement disconcerting. There have been other women who have done this for him but they were paid to do so; paid to pretend desire, all their kisses false and their sweet words lies. None of them wanted him for himself and he can’t quite believe that Sophia does either. But here she is. Soft under his hands. Then - deliciously slick under his finger tips.

“Francis,” she pleads. Does she even know what she’s asking for?

The rain hammers against the glass. Or perhaps it’s the pounding of his own heart. 

*

James is caught in a strange fit of exhaustion and exhilaration. He has put Francis and Mrs. Crozier to bed; one to the foggy dreams of laudanum and the other to the dead sleep of drink. He did not open the window tonight; instead Thomas knocked on the door, bold as anything. But with John chasing poor Lydia around the house and their hosts flat on their backs and dead to the world they can be a little more bold.

Thomas says nothing but blows out the candle and strips, the noise of his clothing hitting the floor barely audible over the rain. The curtains are open though, and what little light there is paints Thomas’s body in dark shadows. 

That first shock of skin meeting skin is delicious. Thomas settles his weight over James’s hips and leans down for a kiss. James tries not to think about his missing teeth.


	6. Sophia Crozier II

The house weeps in the Summer storms that have blown in. Small rivers run down the walls; windowsills become little waterfalls. The floor from the front door to the kitchen becomes one long puddle. And the roads are a sea of mud so they are all trapped, damp and miserable. None of the fires will light and rain comes in through broken flues. The men of the house avoid looking at each other, lest they remind themselves of the last time they were all so damp and cold. Only Sophia’s bedroom is saved; the only place in the house that is still watertight.

The servants decamp to the stables; it appears that the owner took more care of the horses than his family. Were there children here? Sophia find notches on a door frame which seem to indicate some marking growth over time but a closer inspection reveals them to be akin to claw marks. 

Doctor’s orders still confine her to the top floor; to her little bedroom with its snaking floral wallpaper like vines or perhaps prison bars. She listens for Mr. Corbaid’s footsteps, the scrape and drag so different to Mr. Jopson’s quiet shuffle. 

She was glad of her husband’s new valet. The doctor’s medicine has clouded her memories but she was sure he had introduced himself and she had found him pleasing. He was charmingly irreverent, and Irish too, and she hoped that would break through Francis’s increasingly melancholy. Mr Corbaid had no accent although he said - rather fairly in Sophia’s opinion - that being lower born and crippled he had no reason to reduce his standing further. 

“Poor Francis never learned the trick of it,” she said to him, the last time he came to check on the windows.  
“I’m a tricky sort of man, Mrs. Crozier.”  
“At least you’re honest about it,” she had laughed. “Who is the sweetheart you were visiting when I saw you first?”  
He has such a charming smile. Or at least she thinks he does. Sometimes his expressions are blurry, indistinct. Like she was looking at him through clouded glass.   
“Sweetheart, Mrs. Crozier?”  
“I saw you when we first came here. Out in the little copse of trees.”   
A pause.  
“Don’t worry,” she had said. “As long as there’s no scandal, there’s no harm in it.”  
“That’s a very liberal attitude,” Mr. Corbaid had said. He was examining the window frame, making critical noises.   
“I know Mr. Crozier thinks differently,” she said. “But the maids are my purview, not his.”  
“I’m sure he would disagree, as he is head of this household.”  
“When he starts acting - well. I shouldn’t like to say. That is…”  
“He is in a strange new world,” said Mr. Corbaid. “It will take some time to adjust.”  
“Just as long as you don’t break anyone’s heart,” she had said. She was very fond of Lydia, who she had been surprised to find was not local at all, but came from Kent.  
“No chance of that,” Mr. Corbaid had such a charming laugh. “Mr. Irving is very fond of her.”  
“I’m sure he is,” she had murmured. “Still. Although a fine man, he doesn’t have your...charm.”  
“He is a very Godly man, which lends itself to good character. Not much to offer to pretty maids, though.”  
Yes, thought Sophia, as she drifted off to sleep. Mr. Irving was such grim company. The last thing she heard was Mr. Corbaid assuring her that he would see to her windows. He was good, he said, at dealing with draughts and leaks.

How long ago was that? A day? A week? Or last night? Sophia was trying to write a letter to Aunt Jane. She must talk to the doctor about lowering the dose; whilst she respected doctors, the constant fug was starting to irritate. And it made her feel so queasy in the mornings. There was some good news; Lydia was as stalwart as an oak tree and never complained, not even that she was almost always damp. Francis had conceded on the issue of Mr. Diggle, and their new cook was doing her best. 

Apparently there was to be another new man, another waif from the Arctic. Down for his lungs, Francis had informed her. It was the least he could do for the man. Which heroic Thomas, Henry or John is it? She had asked. He'd looked away at that and she'd felt ashamed at her levity/ 

Aunt Jane isn’t responding to her letters. There had been a few in the fortnight after they came here but after that, nothing. Even through the laudanum fug - which she is sure that it is - she feels the loss acutely. Like an amputation. Aunt Jane had been so silent on the marriage. She acknowledged that would be acceptable for them to wed, even desirable. Society expected it. 

Frustrated, she screws up the letter and throws it into the grate. Her inkpot spills; a black stain spreads across the lap of her dress. Her last clean dress. She can feel it soaking through her skirt and petticoats. And she cannot strip herself down - too many laces and buttons and skirts. She watches the black patch spread and begins to cry.

Then footsteps. Not Mr. Corbaid’s. Jopson. Why is he still here? Surely if the man hates her then he must hate his replacement even more. This is not to be tolerated. She wants the man gone and damn Francis’s feelings. She stands up, intending to tell him so, but trips against the edge of the rug and falls to the floor. The rooms spins as she tries to pull herself up -

“Mrs. Crozier? Are you alright, Ma’am?”

“Go away.”

“Ma’am?”

She will not let him see her like this. She feels, even more deeply, that he is her enemy in this. In all things, in fact. 

“Fetch Lydia.”

“Should I call the doctor, too?”

“No. I just want Lydia.”

“Ma’am-”

“Just do it, for God’s sake.” It comes out as a sob and she hates herself so much she cannot breathe.

“For the baby’s sake, Ma’am -”

Her blasted inkwell is on the floor. It is of finest china, which Uncle John had given her for the last birthday he was with them. Without a pause she picks it up and hurls it against the door, where it shatters and leaves black spots like tiny holes against the wood of the door. Exhausted, she lies back down on the floor. The carpet is soft and dry. 

She lays there even as the voices outside her door beg her to unlock it. It’s strange - she doesn’t remember locking it in the first place. But that is by the by. The door screams and cracks like an animal in its death throes. 

*

Voices around her bed wake her; the doctor again. Francis. Lydia. 

“With all due respect, Mr. Crozier - I said complete bedrest.” The doctor’s reproach is mild. “With all the anxiety in the house, well - you cannot expect a lady in her condition to take it easily.”  
“Her condition?”   
The silence is painful. Sophia tries her best to feign sleep. Lydia does her best to provide excuses.  
“I don’t think she was sure, Sir - she has been queasy in the mornings these past few weeks, and her sheets -”  
“Well, quite.” The doctor says quickly.   
Francis’s voice is cracking.  
“She did not say.”  
“Women often don’t, Sir.” Of all the people in the world, why is Jopson here? “Not unless they are very sure. And she has had a fall.”  
“Perhaps she didn’t want you to get your hopes up, Mr. Crozier.”  
“Hope?” Francis’s voice is splintered, dangerous. Full of edges. “If you are sure she is recovered, then perhaps you may return home.”  
“The roads, Mr Crozier - I don’t suppose you have a spare room? I don’t like to presume-”  
“Presume away,” Francis says. “Everyone else does.”  
“You can take my room,” Lydia says. “I would feel better for sitting up with her.”  
“That’s very kind of you,” says the Doctor. “I don’t suppose there is somewhere to dry my boots?”

“This whole house is drowning,” Sophia murmurs. “We are all underwater.”  
“Another dose,” the doctor says. “To help her sleep.”  
“You’d know,” Francis says. “To bed, then.”  
“If it’s the same to you, Sir - I think we should put a curtain over the door. To keep the drafts out.” Why is Jopson being so kind?  
“A job for the morning,” Francis mutters. Sophia tries to open her eyes but cannot. She tries to reach for him but cannot. She thinks he will touch her, kiss her goodnight, but he does not.

*

Her mouth is dry and she feels as if she is burning from the inside. But someone is pressing a cool, wet cloth against her forehead.   
“Lydia?”  
A chuckle.  
“Francis?”  
Silence.  
“Jopson?”  
“Of course not,” says Mr. Corbaid. “He would never.”  
Sophia opens her eyes. The storm has stopped but she can hear the wind rattling the trees and there is some moonlight coming through the crack in the curtains.   
“When will he leave?” She asks, too tired for etiquette. She feels raw and bloody inside; can almost make out the smell of old blood, like she is near a butcher’s shop.  
“I’ll work something out.”  
Mr Corbaid is lost in the shadows. But she can feel him next to her, his weight pushing down the mattress.   
“You are so good, Mr. Corbaid,” Sophia whispers. “So kind.”  
He laughs.  
“I’m not really. Not at all.”  
“If you are not kind, then why are you here?” She reaches out, tries for his arm, feels nothing but air.   
“Because I cannot be elsewhere.”  
“Do you want to be?”  
“More than anything. Do you?”  
“I want to be in a house that doesn’t leak. I want my Aunt Jane to write to me. I want Francis to love me.”  
“I’m sure that he does, Mrs. Crozier. In the secret places of his heart.”  
“He does not show it,” she does not cry. Every time she tries to feel anything it slips away from her, like fish underwater. “What is it worth if he will not show me?”  
Mr. Corbaid shushes her, takes her hand and strokes it.   
“Do you want to leave here, Mrs. Crozier?” he repeats; patient, as if talking to a child  
“More than anything.”  
They both laugh at that.  
“Do you really know the secret places of Francis’s heart?” It was such an odd thing for him to say.   
“I know all of his secrets, Mrs. Crozier. But I am not jealous of them, as Jopson is.”  
“Will you tell me?”  
Silence. She shivers, suddenly cold.   
“I think you’d better find them out for yourself. If he loves you he will tell you.”  
“How would I begin-?”  
“Stop taking the medicine they give you. It is clouding your mind. That is if you want to know, of course. You may learn them and change your mind. But you cannot unknow them, if you catch my meaning.”  
“Of course I want to know,” she whispers. Sleep is dragging her back down into its dark embrace. “He’s my husband. We must share everything.”


	7. Harry Peglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide
> 
> Please note there is a new chapter ("The storm") between "Lady Franklin" and "Sophia Crozier II". I posted the wrong the chapter first.

It looks like someone’s been at the fences with an axe. Harry touches the broken wood cautiously, wary of splinters. The locals said there was a bad storm just a few days ago but he’s never seen a storm that would do this. Of course, sea-storms and land-storms are different beasts but he also knows what men can do when they have a mind to it.  
He’s being fanciful. The fences were probably just being rebuilt and the storm ripped them up again. 

The road to the house is half-mud and the cart driver declined to take him all the way up so he’s walking the rest of the way. Not unpleasant, despite the mud. He imagined describing this in his letters to John, although he lacked the words to describe it as a house. Rather he could describe its feeling; in need of a little love and care, but a good place with good bones. He tried not to think about those other letters, the ones he was being forced to write. 

As he walks past a grove of trees, he hears familiar voices; Captain Crozier and Commander Fitzjames. He is glad that they had stayed friends, for all that had happened between them. There was a kind of understanding between the men who had survived. A brotherhood. Sworn to secrecy, with their own odd rituals and superstitions. 

“You’ll have something to leave to him,” says Fitzjames. “A bit of land of his own. A home. That’s important for a young boy. ”

They haven’t noticed his arrival; their backs are turned to him. Usually Harry would walk on, leaving his superiors to pour out their feelings. When they were in the Arctic some of those boundaries has collapsed; now they have returned they have been raised again, although the lines are often too blurry for comfort. And this is the sort of thing he has been instructed to listen for. 

“Damn this place,” Captain Crozier says. “I’ve a mind to burn it to the ground.”

The vision of the burning tent appears; an inferno which took the poor, sick men inside and left only gnarled, black husks behind. Harry remembers the look on Hickey’s face as they all tried desperately to quench the flames. Hickey stood there, murmuring “Billy” under his breath, stunned and hopeless. With not so many sick men they could press forward. There was food for them all. That was the turning point for all of them. A dark seed was planted in all of them that day; perhaps now it is bearing fruit. 

Harry trudges on; why should the Captain want to destroy his own house? As he draws near he takes stock; the brick is damp, even in the sun. All the windows are open and various curtains and rugs are hanging out.

“Mr. Peglar?” 

It’s Thomas. He looks about ten years older than when Harry saw him last.

“Mr. Jopson?”

“What are you doing here, Harry?”

“Clearing my lungs. The city air doesn’t agree with me.”

Jopson frowns.

“I’m expected,” Harry clarifies quickly.

“You’d think the Captain was running an infirmary,” Jopson raises an eyebrow. “Everyone seems to be throwing themselves on his charity.”

This isn’t the Thomas Harry knew. He’s all sharp edges and disdain. Perhaps he’d been changed by - well. There’s a more likely explanation in that there had always been rumours about him and the Captain and now the Captain was married perhaps Thomas was on the outs. Another thing he’d have to put in the letters, God help him. 

“Mr. Collins is in the barn,” Thomas says. “I suppose since you’re here for your lungs you won’t be doing any heavy work. Mr. Collins can still pull his weight.”

“What’s he doing in the stables, then?”

“Sleeping off the drink,” Thomas says. His voice is pure poison. “Fetch him quickly, won’t you?”

What happened to you, Thomas? Harry’s bewildered and more than a little hurt. 

“It’s around the back of the house. You can’t miss it.”

Jopson turns on his heel and disappears back inside. Harry looks up at the house again. Perhaps it’s the conversation that he just had but something’s changed in its aspect. The windows resemble empty eyes staring down at him. He touches the wood of the door - it feels damp and spongy under his fingertips. He shakes his head and wanders around the house to the stables.

There is more laundry hanging out here, hung on lines that crisscross the little courtyard. He looks at the knots and shakes his head - they look like they’ll give at the first strong wind. After he’s done rousing Collins he’ll track down whoever did this and teach them the proper way of doing things. 

“Collins?” He calls, thinking that the man should have some warning before he barges in. Collins’s bad nerves are legendary among the survivors; he stares at all of them like he’s not sure whether they are really there. Perhaps it would have been easier on him if he had been sent to the asylum, as had been suggested. But the Captain wouldn’t hear of it. 

Instead they sent the sane man to the asylum and Henry Collins was here. 

Harry takes a breath and calls for him again. Then he pushes the stable door open. And he feels the absence of life in that empty space before he sees Mr. Collins hanging from a beam leading from the hayloft. No living man has a neck that bends like that, nor such a purple face. He closes the door, takes a few deep breaths, and goes in search of Thomas.

The kitchen door is open; Harry knocks. A woman in a dirty apron answers.

“My name is Harry Peglar,” he says. “I’m-”

“Oh yes, we were told you were coming,” says the woman. “I’m Mrs. Matthews, the cook. Want a cup of tea, dearie? You’re pale all over.”

He’s missed this; the warmth and certainty of kind women. There had been so many in the months after their return, and he’s served a few back at the pharmacy. 

“Just my lungs, Mrs. Matthews - is Mr. Jobson around?”

The lies come so easily. He hates himself.

“Oh, probably upstairs, looking in on Mrs. Crozier. Poor lady’s not been well.”

“Oh?”

“This house is leakier than a rotten ship. We almost drowned in the storm.”

She opens the door to let him into the kitchen. 

“Put your bag down, dearie. Then after you’ve got Mr. Jopson, come back for some lunch. You’re probably hungry -”

 

“Mrs. Matthews? What’s all the noise?”

Thomas’s voice. Still with that edge to it. 

“Your Mr. Peglar’s here, Mr. Jopson.”

Thomas comes in, scowling. 

“Didn’t you manage to wake Mr. Collins?”

Again, the lies come so easily. When did this happen to him?

“He’s taken ill, Mr. Jopson. I think we should call the doctor.”

“That poor man’s been back and forth from this house so many times I think he might shift his practice here,” says Mrs. Matthews. “There’s sickness in this house like you wouldn’t believe.”

Thomas sniffs and strides out, presumably in the direction of the stables. Harry dumps his bag down, dodging the sheets flapping in the wind. But he’s not fast enough. Thomas disappears into the stables. Harry waits for a scream.

Nothing.

When he gets inside the stables, Thomas is staring up at Collins’ body which is now gently swaying in the breeze let in by the open door. Tears are rolling down his face and he begins to shake. Harry, at a loss, pulls Thomas to face him. 

“Thomas,” he says. “Tom. Come back to me.”

“He never left,” Thomas says. His eyes are glassy with tears. “He couldn’t - he said he was always there. He said I would always be there, always with him.”

“Mr. Collins was a sick man,” Harry says. “You should not have listened to him.”

“No -” Thomas shakes his head. “Not Henry. _Him_. _He_ said that to me. That we would carry a piece of him with us always. And we would always be trapped-”

Harry pulls Thomas into his arms. Thomas buries his head in his shoulder and sobs; Harry hopes the noise does not carry back to the kitchen. He writes the first letter in his mind and hopes the recipient will be able to decipher his handwriting.


	8. James Fitzjames II

It’s handshakes and gentlemen’s agreements and some quiet bribes all round. Henry Collins fell from the roof of the stables whilst trying to fix a leak. He is buried in the local churchyard, no family being found for him. Mrs. Crozier is absent, of course. Lydia and the cook have their duties. So it’s just the four of them, standing around another grave, looking down at another dead shipmate. James feels like his ribs are cracking open. Collins had made it back to England; surely he could see some happy future for himself?

Obviously not. James struggles with the thought at times. Francis has his child to look forward to; a son to carry on his name and inherit his land. He has a strange fancy of a small boy with Francis’s dour expression but Sophia’s bright eyes, of taking that boy in his arms, and them exploring this very garden, playing childish games. That little lad sitting on his knee as he entertains him with the tales of his exploits, and the child rolling his eyes and declaring he won’t listen to another one of Uncle James’s boring stories. He hopes that he will be asked to be Godfather. Some kind of mooring. A permanent place in someone’s heart. 

Thomas won’t even look him in the eye. He snaps at the maids and the cook. He is downright insulting to Peglar, who seems to take his former friend’s coldness in his stride. Distant, miserable, hard to love - not that James ever loved him, of course, but he was fond of him. Francis, of course, doesn’t notice. Together they are much as they always were, which James refuses to feel jealous of. He wishes he and Thomas could be the way they were; with Thomas in his bed the nightmares fled. They were so real together. So alive. 

But Collins’ death changed everything. He feels like he is being watched; even more than that, being mocked. He’s felt unkind eyes on him before. He knows some living thing is regarding their misfortunes. He knows. 

They get a cart back to the house; the five of them shoulder to shoulder, just like the old days. All they had to concentrate on was surviving. All men are the same in the struggle against a slow and starving death. Then they became brothers in lies; we survived by the mercy of God. 

Irving had almost refused to attend. This was a lie too far for him. To profane sacred ground with the body of a suicide was beyond a moral point. James felt they’d crossed that long ago. It always comes back to that, of course. Everything they do comes back to that one, definitive moment and then everything that they’ve done or will do is measured against it. He had drawn upon every bit of talk about brotherhood and maintaining appearances that he could find within himself. James wanted to say: nothing is sacred anymore. 

They are about halfway to the house when they hear the snarl come from the trees. The cart driver says nothing, does not even turn around. The horses do not take fright. The men in the cart look at each other with a dull sort of surprise. Of course they could not leave it behind. Lady Silence had assured them she had that creature in hand; all the stupid, foolish white men had to do was leave, take their murder and despair back with them to whatever awful place from whence they came. She said these words over Goodsir’s grave; turned her back, and walked into the Arctic sunset. A woman with no fear and nothing staining her conscience.   
They keep going. There is nothing else for them to do. 

The house finally seems to have dried out. James says a silent prayer for the diligence of women. With hard work they seemed to have plugged the cracks and leaks. The servants have worked hard to keep their strange ship sailing blindly on a sea of green, dark trees, afloat. James had never believed he would be warm or dry again when they were on their march of the damned. But he was cured of that notion and now believes that he can be so again.

Perhaps this feeling will pass. All it requires is a change of environment. All it would take would be for Francis to sell the house. But Francis has said that Sophia loves it here. She has said so, deep in her laudanum dreams. She has said so, Francis has said so. In Sophia James can see something of her uncle’s folly. His pride. His self belief. It could be a reason why Thomas has been so against her. Thomas might feel like once again they are being lead into disaster. A home of their own is what all women desire. But why this house?

The previous occupants had left it because of debt and scandal; nothing more sinister than that. James’s discretion has prevented him from revealing anything to Francis and Sophia. But he will. Once Francis has recovered his wits. They all need to dry him out. Right now he will not listen to sense. He will have Thomas, of course. Irving should be sent away. Perhaps Peglar, too. And he most certainly won’t talk, otherwise James will reveal what he knows. Only this morning James saw that he was writing a letter. 

To Bridgens, of course. They have moved away, needing only each other. On the ship home James caught them rutting in the hold. On Bridgens’ face was a look of almost animal desire as he sat on a crate, Peglar on his lap, facing away, grinding down and panting. They touched each other like starved men. When caught Bridgens had looked at him with a challenging air; Peglar had said nothing, merely burying his face in Bridgens’ shoulder. So fierce was Bridgens’ face that James felt for a moment that he would be murdered, right there. If they were to be hanged for buggery then what was murder? It’s not like Bridgens was unused to the concept. 

But James had merely said _as you were, gentlemen_ and left to masturbate in his cabin. That had been when Thomas had caught him at it; that’s when all the pleasantries between them had begun. Right now he put his hat down on his lap to disguise the stiffening of his prick. 

And now was when they finished. James knew that. Tonight he planned to ask Thomas to help him get Francis off the drink. For all of their sakes. They needed his steady hand. They needed him to tell them that it was all in their minds; that whatever they were seeing -

He looks up at the house and sees Cornelius Hickey standing at a window. Not just any window; that of Mrs. Crozier’s bedroom. The man looks whole, solid. He looks down at James and waves, before shutting the curtains. He was in their with Francis’s wife. Without a word, without he leaps out of the cart; opens the door, and rushes up the stairs. 

The door to Sophia’s room was open. And Sophia is stirring on the bed.

“Mr. Corbaid?” she asks. “Please open the curtains - it’s so stuffy in here. I am going to suffocate.”

“It’s James,” he says, heart racing. “Who is Mr. Corbaid?”

“Francis’s new valet,” she says. 

“Francis doesn’t have a new valet, Sophia.”

“And here I was, hoping that Jopson was gone for good.”

She rolls over to look at him. He realises that she is completely naked under the sheet, which has slid down, exposing the soft curves of her breasts. Her hair is in curls all about her face. Christ, if he were Francis, he’d be on top of this woman every hour, even in her condition. 

“Do you think Jopson’s in love with my husband?” she asks. Her tone is calm and polite, as if she’s inquiring about an acquaintance rather than discussing a hanging offence. 

“No, Sophia,” he says. “Because he’s in love with me.”

She will not remember this, he is sure. And there are steps coming up the stairs. 

“Who is Mr. Corbaid, then?” she asks. “You must have seen him. Red hair. Shortish. A smile like Lucifer. And he has no left leg.”

Jesus Christ, he thinks. Jesus Christ.

He walks out of the room, closes the door behind him. There are faces staring at him; he is so mad with fear and panic that their faces blur. 

“I saw Mrs. Crozier at the window,” he says. “I think she needs her medicine. She seems very distressed.”

“She needs nothing more than love and care,” Lydia’s voice snaps. “The doctor is wrong.”

“I think the doctor knows more about it than a maid,” Irving’s tone grates harsh across his nerves. “Stupid girl.”

She gives a little sob; turns and rushes down the stairs.

“The only thing that is stupid about Lydia is that she lets you put your hand up her skirts when she misses her husband.” Peglar’s voice is shaking.   
“Would you all be quiet? Jesus, squabbling like fishwives.” Francis’s own voice brings him back. “I’m going to the riverbank. None of you follow after me.”

James stares at his retreating back. 

“Francis?” he says. “Please don’t. We need you.”

“Why? What do you want me to do?”

“I think you know very well why, Sir,” Thomas says quietly.

They had burned the note that Collins had left behind. 

_I’m sorry. I let him in._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look it's actual plot.
> 
> A brief note: I don't plan to explain absolutely everything that this story brings up. A lot will be, but not everything.


	9. Thomas Jopson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day? Well. I'm bored.

Night crawls in. The household settles into sleep. Thomas looks up and sees that the window to James’s bedroom is closed. That’s the end of that, then. He feels like something is gnawing on him from the inside. He closes his eyes and pictures something small and sleek and streaked with gore chewing at his bones. He hurts and he is tired. And tired of hurting. He has not slept in weeks and for his captain’s sake will not sleep for many more. 

The lack of rest has made him irritable, unkind. He cannot open his mouth but to sink his teeth into someone else. Grief and anger have twisted Thomas Jopson into someone he does not recognise-

_The strong prey on the weak. Natural order of things_

He knows he had been something like a son to Captain Crozier on their march home. He knows it because he looked into the Captain’s eyes and saw it there. Third Lieutenant. Him just a steward. The Captain trusted him, valued his judgement. They had a future together where they could be as equals, be as friends. He came back to England to find his mother dead and his brother in the workhouse. He came back to find that the Admiralty did not recognise his promotion. He came back to a world he built around Francis Crozier.

And then Captain Crozier had gotten married. And when he had seen Mrs. Crozier being sick in the mornings he knew that whatever warm bonds he and Captain Crozier shared would dissolve. He would be a servant once more. He would be dismissed as soon as he was no longer useful. Nursing the Captain through his tremens was his last and best hope for staying in his orbit. 

Thomas moves towards the stables. Everyone else has moved back inside. But he wants one last night there. The thought that Henry Collins had killed himself there just last night did not trouble him. There was a blanket and a pallet and a kind of peace there. He did not have to hear the siren song of James Fitzjames there; nor the rutting from the next bedroom. Irving was sweet on her, and she on him, but there was no future for them. Irving knew it, Thomas understood it, but Lydia did not realise it. Even scarred and ugly and dour with a taste for drink that could rival the Captain’s own he still thinks himself above a maid. Lydia is a sweet woman with a gentle heart. Thomas is cruel to her because he did not want them to be friends, because if they were friends he would have to care about her broken heart. And he has one of his own to nurse.

He pushes the door of the stables . There is nothing but the smell of sweet hay and the dark which these days he welcomed as a friend. The ladder creaks as he makes his way up, careful of his hands, which ache continually. The little loft is entirely dark; not even the stars are shining tonight. He feels his way over to the pallet, reached out - and touches another man’s shoulder.

There were no screams left in him. Not since the Arctic. The man rolls over, grabs him by the arms. Strong hands; he cannot pull away, even if he wants to. If he’s very lucky he’ll die tonight. Die in the quiet dark. They will bury him next to Collins. And he will be forgotten. 

Thomas no longer regards or really examines his impulses. Between breaths he leans down to where he thinks the man’s face is and kisses him. It’s the only way he can think of to thank this stranger. 

_You’re so in love with the idea of your own death. Why don’t you just die, Thomas Jopson? Lie down with me. At least you won’t live to have him reject you. You won’t die alone._

The other man’s mouth opens and the kiss continues, seconds, minutes, years - a brief hint of tongue and teeth. This is a flesh and blood man, Thomas thinks. And he reaches down to squeeze the man’s prick, which hardens at his touch. The man groans. The sound is familiar. He is abruptly pulled down beside the man, so they are both on the pallet, facing each other, although they cannot see each other. He is kissed again; a hand reaches into his trousers and grasps him. There is a tenderness in it; something of a fair exchange that he never felt with James.

Afterwards, the man takes him into his arms and kisses the top of his head. Thomas knows he will wake up alone tomorrow. This is too wonderful to last. He is used to disappointment; he will put it with all his others and eventually it will become part of him, a scar on his heart and a worm in his brain.

“He was mine first, you know.”

Thomas closes his eyes and shivers. The other man, half-asleep already, stirs a little. The voice is coming from downstairs. Once again, the dark is his friend, although he can smell the tobacco.

“But you can have him. You’ll need all the comfort you can get over the next few weeks.”

A chuckle. 

“Especially once Crozier works out that you pushed his wife down the stairs.”


	10. Harry Peglar II

Harry writes his letter the next day. Post being what it is he thinks it should get to his correspondent very quickly. Although it may take them some time to read it. He longs to write to John but the conditions of the original letter were very clear: no contact with anyone else. 

He decides to deliver it to the post office personally. It’s a strange thing - how have no letters either reached or been delivered to the house? It’s a slow trudge to the village, even in the bright sunshine. Hopefully there will be no more storms. Everything has just dried from the last time. 

The village itself is like so many in England; a small shop and post office, close cottages, the smell of livestock and the ordinary sounds of people living ordinary lives. It is not lovely but a welcome change from the house which is increasingly resembling a hellish cross between a crypt and a madhouse. He is not the least bit unsettled by the strange looks he gets; no doubt they are unused to strangers and besides he’s missing a few teeth and a few fingers. There is a scar running from his hairline to his cheekbone, like a crack in china. 

The little shop has two occupants; a woman serving and a man leaning on the counter. Both of them deep in conversation that he has to cough to catch their attention. 

“Just a letter to London,” he says. “Thank you. Has anything come for Captain or Mrs Crozier?”

“No,” says the woman, staring at him. She glances quickly at the man, who smiles. 

“Are you one of those famous Arctic heroes?” he asks. Harry forces a laugh. 

“A survivor,” he says, “Although it is quite an honour to say that I served with Captain Crozier.”

Another glance exchanged.

“A good man,” says the man. “A real hero.”

“He would be embarrassed to hear you say so.”

“Humility’s a fine thing,” the woman murmurs. “Don’t meet many humble Irishmen.”

“I should go back,” Harry says. There is some undertone to this. For all their words they seem distinctly uneasy about the subject.

“It’s just his dog,” the woman blurts out, flushing. “It’s causing all sorts of trouble around the village. Killing chickens and that. We hear it howling all around the woods at night. Frights the children.”

Harry’s heart cannot sink any further. 

“A big white dog?” he asks.

“That’s the one,” says the man. “If Captain Crozier could-”

“I’m sure the Captain will pay for any damages. And the dog will be dealt with. It’s a bit of an unruly beast and we’re fond of it but we can’t have it roaming around.”

They relax, happy in their faith in the hero of the Arctic being so generous. A reasonable man, if a little strange. 

“We are sorry about your man. Terrible accident. People in the village think the house was too far gone to repair, and after the tenants left-”

“Why did they leave?” Harry asks. “I don’t like to gossip, but -”

“Oh, debt and scandal. Usual gentry nonsense.” The man winks. “Come down to the pub some time and we can share stories. I’m sure you’ve got a fine tale or two.”

“I would but Mrs. Crozier doesn’t approve of drink,” Harry replies. 

“Hard on the Captain then. Whoever met a sober Irishman?” 

“Mary!” The man looks apologetic. “Excuse my wife, Sir. Women talk a lot of rot, don’t they?”

Harry laughs. Women seem to be the only people talking any sense. 

“Good day to your both. Hope this lovely weather holds.”

The sunlight has gone from cheering to something harsh and bright; the kind of pure intensity he remembers from the Arctic. He sweats as he walks back to the house but at the same time he feels like something deep inside him has frozen. And the trees loom large and dark and he watches them closely, watches for a flash of white among them.

“Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”

Harry closes his eyes. He can no longer be surprised by anything. Someone threatened to take his life away; now Hickey returns to make a claim on his sanity.

“I suppose it was too much to hope you’d stay dead,” Harry says. He will not open his eyes. He will not. 

“Not me, Harry,” Hickey laughs. Clear and pure as a bell. Harry’s cheeks grow warm; once upon a time, he loved that laugh. Some guilty part of himself remembered how much he wanted Hickey when they were serving together. But Hickey only had eyes for sweet Billy Gibson, who roasted alive in the sick tent. “Not with so much I need to do.”

“What’s that?”

Then there’s that familiar grim whisper, the one that has always made Harry want to scrub his insides. Even dead Hickey loves the sound of his own voice.

“We are under the yoke of a tyrant, Harry. I mean for us to be free.” 

Harry opens his eyes. The road is empty. 

That was just a warning. This is just the beginning.


	11. Lady Jane Franklin II

“John,” Lady Jane says, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, “I am trying to sleep.”  
Her husband groans.  
“At least have the decency to say something.”  
He replies with an undignified whimper of pain. She tries another approach. Lord knows, you often needed multiple with John.   
“Darling,” she murmurs. “What are you trying to tell me?”  
Silence.  
“Is it about Sophia?”  
Something halfway between a groan and a scream.   
“I have it in hand, John. There’s really no need for you to stay.”  
She feels his weight shift in the bed beside her. His hand, still gloved, tries to entangle its fingers with hers. She pulls it away and rolls over. The hand is placed on her waist and he presses his mouth to her hair.  
“Enough, John,” she murmurs. She will not cry, she will not cry. “It will be alright.”

The maid wakes her with breakfast. Lady Jane has been taking it in bed these last few weeks. She does not like going down to the main room and sitting at the large table, all alone, while the servants move around her like clockwork figurines. There has been some kind suggestions that she should reduce her establishment; sell this place and move somewhere smaller. There have been unkind suggestions that she is turning it into a shrine to her dead husband. These same unkind suggestions go on to say that this is the reason Sophia Cracroft leapt at the chance to marry Francis Crozier. More unkind suggestions imply that she is without direction since she is no longer Sir John Franklin’s “professional widow.”

“A letter came for you, Lady Franklin. It’s on the breakfast tray.”

“Thank you.”

The maid goes out. 

_CC veRy baAd & ths weyk tayken bye TrEMen . JT is sette to help hym thro it, altho gyven his LONG HABIT it wille be harde. JF startyn to loose paytenyce. _

_Beggynge youre pardon maam but JT and JF have been conductyng a love affaire theyse paste few mOnths. Thys is over nowe.,,I am sure there is a new man aboutte the house...yr man, I thinke???Collynes is deade by hanginge. All agreede to saye it was notte. JI has beeyne withe poore Lydia, he sayes he loves her butte means to leaf in fewe dayes._

_Re yr lettere thate you sente it did notte come. None of yr letteres hav come and I understande thate none of MRSC lettres hav been sente as I talked to and no letteres have come frm thus house. MRSC is withe childe ande has suffered muche, she is fed much laudananam ande sleepes alwayes._

_If You ar to com...then I woulde suggeste that in a weeykes’ time when CC wille be deepe in his suffrying ande unablye to stoppe you._

So Francis is worse than she could have imagined. Not only destroying her letters to Sophia but destroying Sophia’s possible replies? Is he that jealous of her place in Sophia’s heart? A petty domestic tyrant. She’s not entirely sure who’s having a love affair with who or what that has to do with anything but she has to admire the man’s commitment to detail. Someone has hanged themselves. Well, if half of what Solomon Tozer said is true, then she couldn’t blame him. How men could walk lightly around the world with such guilt -

Sir John is sitting in the chair by the window. It’s strange that he should only appear now, or rather, it is strange that he should appear at all. He should be in Heaven and leaving sorting out these earthly affairs to her. But Sir John was always so stubborn. She did say, back when he appeared, that she would only talk to him within the hours of 8pm to 5am - anything else and people would suspect she was becoming demented. 

He is always with her. His left leg consists of bloody stump and there is a strange charring across his body as if he has leaned too close to a fire. Everywhere is he is all ice; radiates cold in the polite drawing rooms and opera houses and tea rooms of London. Leaves smears of red that are invisible to all but her. Before she had spoken to Solomon Tozer he hadn’t been there at all. Now he was.

But Sir John or no Sir John, she had the living to deal with; a much more pressing concern. Sophia was expecting a child. She should be taken to London, to the best doctors, to be pampered and tendered, not shut away and dosed on laudanum. Poor Eleanor had barely lasted a year after having her daughter; it was no safe thing, having a child. She pulls the blankets over her knees and gives Sir John a look; a tribulation she had been spared, thank god. But she will be there in a week, and Sophia will see sense, and they will both come back to London. The house will no longer be empty. 

Scandal be damned. She will not lose Sophia to Francis Crozier. It was bad enough that he came back without her husband. Lady Jane has withstood the sneering of polite society. She fought the Admiralty tooth and nail. And she sits there and drinks tea with Charles Dickens and his wife while Sir John bleeds and moans in the corner. 

Mr Peglar’s concern for Lydia is touching. But Lydia has her orders; keep John Irving busy and out of the way. James Fitzjames she knew and could account for. But Lieutenant Irving was an unknown quantity. Most men can be flummoxed by a pretty maidservant; a particular and peculiar failing of the upper class. 

When a man is called a hero he can be excused anything. 

Lady Jane is marshalling her forces. Mr. Tozer has his orders too; make them as mad as they told everyone you were. If it comes down to it then he will be her strong right arm; a year in an asylum had not diminished his brutish strength and certainly not improved his temper. And, after all of this, he would have his freedom, a new name, and fifty pounds per annum. 

She puts the letter down and picks up the paper. Sir John moans again, although distantly, as if the sound was coming from underwater.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if I misrepresented dyslexia - although Harry is under a lot of stress, so his writing's going to get much worse.
> 
> Wow this has gone on for a very long time. I swear it'll end eventually.


	12. The night before the day before the night (Three interludes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: porn, infidelity, and cannibalism. Although not all at the same time. 
> 
> You could probably skip this chapter if that's not your bag, it's pretty self indulgent stuff.

John Irving falls asleep so easily these days; it’s a scarce few moments after he’s sent Lydia away before he is claimed. The sleep of the righteous. He can’t remember the last time he felt guilt. The Lord has always guided his hand. 

He dreams of the Arctic. But it is not hell. Not anymore. Instead he dreams of a body pressed to his; a whole body, a warm body - he knows because in his dreams he is Christ and with a kiss he restores his beloved Lazarus to life.   
“Oh John,” Hickey says, “I cannot thank you enough -”  
John silences him with another kiss. He lifts that frail body easily, carries his love like a bride back to his tent, where there are piles of furs. And small trinkets hanging from ribbons, charms that ward off evil. A bundle of letters. A small silver bangle. Someone’s best pipe.

There is also a pile of raw meat on a china plate that weeps blood.   
“I’m so hungry,” Hickey murmurs.  
John feeds him slivers of meat, watches that pale flesh bloom into a healthy pink. John cannot help but lean down, kiss those lips, soft and yielding. He remembers that he had kissed Hickey once but the man had wriggled away and wiped his mouth as if touched by something disgusting. Now he was so placid, so accepting. John strips his clothes off and crawls into the furs beside him; they feed each other meat until they are sated. 

Then, other delights. They run their hands all over each other, skin to skin and they kiss and Hickey takes him in hand. One last kiss before this dream ends. And a few words, spoken between lovers who never were.

“Who is your God, John?” 

“You are.”

When John wakes he has disgraced himself - no matter, the sheets are already ruined from his earlier tryst with Lydia. He lays in it though; luxuriates in his own corruption. He thinks on the commandments of his God. 

_Steal._

_Lie._

_Cheat._

_Laugh at death._

“John?”

A miracle. Cornelius Hickey is standing by the window. Not as lovely as he was in John’s dream but there. He moves over to the bed and brushes John’s sweaty hair off his face.

“You let them cut off my leg, John Irving. You let them leave me to die.”  
John tries to form words but nothing comes out.

“And then when there was no game and Stanley was dead. So they came back. Three days later but it was so cold I was still good.”

John takes on the role of doubting Thomas; puts his hand on the stump of Hickey’s leg and feels it, stiff and raw flesh and then the smoothness of bone.

“I wasn’t dead, John. I wasn’t dead when they started cutting into me.Too weak to move, though. Too weak to scream. ”

Tears drip down Hickey’s face. John lifts his hand to wipe them away but Hickey catches his hand in his.

.“ _Noli me tangere_ , John. I am beyond comfort.”

*

James Fitzjames has been through a night of hell. As dreadful as Francis has been acting, they are still friends, still brothers. On the other side of this Francis will be as he was on that long march; noble, strong, kind. No wonder they have all been falling apart. Francis is too busy fighting his own demons to help them fight the ones outside themselves. The real ones.

Too much has happened in this house for it to be coincidence or bad luck. They were all fools to believe that they could lie and lie and lie and leave it all behind them. There was a price to be paid. Now they would have to summon all the fortitude they had - once more - and face those they had left behind. 

But he is so very tired. He needs someone to stand beside him. Francis is too ill, Thomas has no love for him, Irving would probably devolve into hysterics at any suggestion of ghosts and Peglar seems to have his own motives. There is something furtive about the way the man moves and watches. 

Punishment is inevitable. 

With this in mind he knocks on Sophia’s door.

“Come in, James.”

How the devil does she know it’s him?

She is sitting on her bed, brushing her hair. When she turns to face him there is a sharpness to her expression, an awareness. So she’s no longer taking the laudanum. 

His best friend’s wife looks so lovely sitting there; her nightdress leaves her shoulders and neck bare. There is a warm flush to her cheeks.   
“Come,” she says. “Sit. You look half-dead.”

James does. It is completely inappropriate but he does. He has always been so weak in his temptations. They are within a few inches of each other. He can smell her skin, lightly perfumed. 

“How long will Francis be ill, do you think?”

“A week, perhaps.” He is too tired to lie. “Maybe more. He has not been drinking as much so perhaps it will be easier.”

“It’s been worse than this?” She puts down her hairbrush, looking more exasperated than angry. 

“We tried before the wedding but it didn’t take,” James replies. The longer he looks at her the harder it is not to put his head on her shoulder and weep. He longs for comfort and doesn’t care where it comes from. 

“Hmm,” she says, looking him in the eyes. “Would you say that Francis deserves me?”

“Yes. No. I’m not sure. When he’s not drinking he’s quite good company. Perhaps not for a woman.”

“Are you good company for a woman, James?”

“I’ve been told I am.”

Sophia laughs and leans back against the pillows. 

“Can you prove it?”

He takes a slender ankle and shifts it to the edge of the bed. He does the same with her other. Sophia’s legs are now spread - spread for him. She tilts her head, smiling, and pulls up her nightdress so it is gathered about her hips. James stares at the lower parts of her, parts that he doubts that Francis has ever seen.

There are a few clumsy moments where he has to shift himself so he can put his mouth between her legs, where he will run his tongue along the delicious and secret parts of her. She puts her hand in his hair, stroking and then grasping, pushing his head down, needing it faster, harder. 

James has a vision of Francis coming in, catching them at it. But his dream-Francis stays too, and whispers words of encouragement, stroking his prick and spending all over James’s bare arse. But it is the real world and Francis’s wife is grinding against his tongue, before biting back a moan and coming apart in his mouth. 

The whole business has taken her minutes; it’s clear this is her first time and she looks dazed, exhausted. James’s chest feels empty but he pulls off his trousers anyway, because being hanged for thievery is the same as being hanged for murder. 

*

Thomas is outside, in the stables. He can breathe freely here, away from the stench of a sickroom. Plus he has meeting arranged. 

The noise of a growl startles him; as does the flash of white among the trees. He freezes, thinking of those sharp teeth, those claws. The oddly human eyes staring out, mad with savagery and blood lust. This is how he dies, then. He closes his eyes and hopes it will be quick. All it would take is a single bite - 

The growl comes again, close to his ear. But it is a very human body pressed against his; stinking of sweat rather than a charnel house. The growl is followed by a gentle bite to the neck. 

“Have you gone mad yet, Mr. Jopson?” asks Solomon Tozer. “Will they lock you away?” 

Thomas turns his head, looks into Solomon’s eyes. They are almost black in the darkness.

“I am mad to be doing this,” he says. Solomon kisses his cheek. “To betray the Captain-”

“He has no claim over you, Thomas. You owe him nothing.”

“He has given me -”

“Nothing. Nothing in return for your loyalty.”

There is truth there. Solomon Tozer is not a liar. 

“Let me give you something,” Tozer whispers, and gropes at his prick. “A new name. A future.”

“You hardly know me,” Thomas protests. Solomon squeezes him harder and he moans. 

“You are so good, Thomas Jopson. You deserve more.”

“Not here,” Thomas says. “Someone will see.”

Solomon shrugs.

“Let them.”

“You are mad,” Thomas murmurs, as Solomon sinks to his knees. His prick is suddenly free, until it is not, taken into the heat of Solomon’s mouth. Through the haze of pleasure Thomas thinks of how good it will feel when he finally leaves this place. To walk up the muddy path and never return. To leave his duties behind and be cherished and tended to. Solomon Tozer wants someone to care for; he wants to be with someone who deserves him.


	13. Sophia Crozier III

There is a man crouching in the parlour fireplace. A burned man. He is charred black in some places, peeling red and pink in others. Sophia meets his gaze, smiles, nods, and decides to find somewhere else to read. He looks up at her, unblinking - the poor soul appears to lack eyelids - and bares his teeth, which glow pristine white against his cracked and bloody lips.

““Mrs. Crozier, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. William Gibson?” Mr. Corbaid is behind her. 

She nods politely.

“Billy and I are particular friends,” Mr. Corbaid says. There is a warmth in his tone that she’s never heard before. 

“All Mr. Corbaid’s friends are welcome here.”

Mr Corbaid takes her hand. 

“We have so many to meet, Mrs. Crozier. Shall we see them all?”

“As you wish, Mr. Corbaid.”

The man in the fireplace reaches out as if to grab her skirts.

“Not now, Billy,” Mr. Corbaid chides him. He touches the charred face gently, kisses him. “We’ve got other people to meet.”

Doctor Stanley is in the dining room. His head is crushed one side; an oozing mess of bone shards and dark, clotted red. 

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Crozier,” says Stanley. “Congratulations.”

“Those are the most pleasantries I’ve ever heard you use,” Mr. Corbaid says. “Death’s improved your character.”

They all laugh. Then Mr. Corbaid takes her to meet the others. She’s sure it’s not all of them but she does lose count very quickly. Lieutenant Le Vesconte she knows from James’s stories; a grim and hollow shade who lurks near the servant quarters. Some, Mr. Corbaid tells her, are not fit to be seen in decent company - why, Mr. Armitage is quite in pieces - but she assures him that she has seen enough to understand. Every room in the house is full of dead men. They are all waiting, watching. 

“How long?” She asks Mr. Corbaid.

“A week,” he says. “The Captain asked for a week.”

“Mr. Jopson says he hasn’t been talking sense.”

“And you trust his word? After all this time?”

“I trust him when it comes to Francis.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Mr. Corbaid says, smiling. Even after these few days, it’s still charming. And his company is oddly enjoyable - of course he spends most of his time introducing her to mangled revenants and making sly insinuations about the horrors to come but she’d rather that than spend time with any other person in the house. She tells him so and he positively beams with delight. 

“Even more than Commander Fitzjames?”

“James climbs on top of me like he’s climbing into his own grave.”

“You don’t turn him away.”

“Well,” Sophia says, flushing, “I think I’m allowed some madness of my own.”

“Speaking of -” They are climbing up the stairs, “Mr. Jopson pushed you down the stairs.”

“Oh, I knew _that_ ” she says, irritated. “If I’d lost the baby I’d have beaten him over the head with the fireplace poker until he looked like Doctor Stanley.”

“No you wouldn’t have,” Mr Corbaid steers her into her bedroom. Is it time for bed already?  
“You wouldn’t have dreamed of it. You would have cried and wailed and gone back to Lady Jane.”

“I suppose so,” Sophia murmurs. “What happened to me? How did I become this”

“These men happened to you,” he says, pulling back the blankets and patting the bed. “They brought their sickness with them. Their violence.”

“Their terrible crimes.”

“Exactly. And who are they to judge you? They locked you away. Dismissed you. Ignored you.”

Sophia, to her shame, begins to weep.

“I thought he loved me.”

“He loved you like a man loves a ship; lovely, safe, but most of all, silent. A ship can’t talk back. A ship has no opinions. It is an empty vessel for a man to pour all of himself into and it will demand nothing back.”

There is a scratching under the bed.

“Just dead men’s hands, Mrs. Crozier. Or perhaps the rats.”

He wipes her tears away.

“Real rats?”

“Of course not.”

“I suppose you ate the rats first.”

“Fed them to the dog. You know that they kept that beast alive, even while men were dropping dead from hunger?”

“Francis has done some terrible thing, it seems.” Sophia climbs into bed. “Although bedding James wasn’t my finest moment.”

Mr. Corbaid chuckles. 

“I’m not one to judge. A tumble with a handsome man it not something to be missed.”

He pats the bedclothes in place like a fond nursemaid; or indeed, like Uncle John did when she was a child with bad dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Sophia asks. “If you are such a sworn enemy of Francis? Surely tormenting me would hurt him.”

“Because all those under a tyrant are friends,” Mr. Corbaid says. “I mean to free us all.”

“How?”

A knock.

“That will be Mr. Morfin, here to sing you to sleep. Close your eyes, Mrs. Crozier. He’s quite a sight.” 

Sophia yawns and shuts them tight.

“I think you should call me Sophia,” she says. “We are such good friends now.”


	14. Francis Crozier

Mr. Hickey has always been with him.

The morning after they had left him he was back; leg gone, face pale and those eyes, ever bright with malice. But no one else could see him. Perhaps he had less power then. Francis remembers each footfall, the sled strap digging into his wasting muscles, with Mr. Hickey dancing beside him, whispering threats. A horrible moment, on waking; that face hovering over his, bright blood dripping onto his mouth from Hickey’s twisted blue lips. That weight on his chest.

The drinking helped; turned the foul spectre into a blur that could be dismissed. But he could not drink in front of the men and had enough wits about him then to realise that any sign of self indulgence would lead to their destruction. There were enough ghosts following them across the ice. An army of burned men, of men wasted by scurvy, the men he’d hanged, the men they murdered. 

Francis knew from the start that he would survive the Arctic. He didn’t know how, but he was so sure - was it his love for Sophia that urged him forward? He can hardly recognise the woman he dreamed of on those long, cold nights to the woman he promised a lifetime of love and companionship to, with James beside him. Now James spends more time in his wife’s bed than he does. 

So he got as many of them back as he could. In his darker moments he wishes he’d left James to rot but they have always been brothers in disaster and folly so perhaps it makes no difference. He still has Jopson, of course; lovely man, dark hair and soft mouth and almost boundless jealousy. The thought of being with him was degrading to them both. An abuse of trust, of position - you could twist it into love, like James did, but Francis could not. But now Jopson would go to the window when he thought Francis was asleep and wave to someone outside. His touch had lost its gentleness.

Lost, lost, lost. They all abandoned him. All except Hickey. Hickey was there even on his fumbling wedding night with Sophia - watching and laughing at him from a corner. Whispering filth. In the fits of his deliriums he imagines Hickey climbing into bed and giving her that child, the child whose existence he did not even know how to comprehend. He was so used to death everywhere that the creation of life almost seemed obscene. 

Hickey had not been around so much when they moved into the house. Perhaps, Francis had thought, it had all been the conjurings of an exhausted and starved brain. But he was also drinking more, away from the prying eyes of polite society and Hickey had used this opportunity to - what? Call up storms? Convince poor Collins to hang himself? Try to murder his wife?

There is a dreadful clarity to his thoughts now. Sobriety was not for the weak. He can cast his mind back and pinpoint every time they failed, every time a grievous error was made, at what points they lost themselves. And there is the troubling now: apart from James and Sophia and Jopson and...whoever, he is very aware of the way people in this house look at each other. All those strange currents he has had “no ear for.”  
And Hickey is not always with him now. That is what scares him the most. Who knows what mischief he is creating. There is probably some Irish word or creature that is what Hickey is but he has tried so hard to forget he was Irish in the first place that he has forgotten and it is not a habit he will give up now.

He wants to give up; chase Henry Collins into oblivion. Purgatory can’t be worse than this, he thinks.

They are sitting around the dining table. It’s far too big for their group - a table that sits fifteen currently has six seated; five alive, one dead. Lady Jane stares at him with eyes that burn with hate; Hickey stuffs his fist into his mouth and giggles. Sophia is lost to laudanum; her eyes flicker about the room. Irving stares at his plate, chewing contently, as placid as a cow in a summer field. James is keeping up the conversation; at this moment Francis will forgive him for fucking his wife.

“...I think that when the trees are cleared, there will be a lot more light in the house,” James says. “My brother did the same with his house, and you’d never believe the difference it makes.”

“It sounds like a lot of work. Noisy work.” Lady Jane hasn’t shifted her stare. “I think Sophia will be much more comfortable in London.”

“That’s for Sophia to decide,” Francis says. He’s stared down worse than this gorgon. “It would be hard for her to move. And we have only been married a little while. I don’t see the sense in seperation.”

“Well, it will be better for her. In her condition. I’m sure she’ll see sense.”

“Mrs. Crozier seems quite happy here,” Irving murmurs. “Out in the country and the fresh air.”

“Mrs. Crozier is in the room,” Sophia says. “Please don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.”

“In your condition…”

“How would you know? I haven’t told you.”

James turns to look at Sophia, an expression of horror crossing his face. Francis feels a sick, strange glee at it; or perhaps that is just Mr. Hickey, laughing uproariously. 

“I’ve not mentioned it in any of my letters,” Sophia continues, face drawn and pale. “Which you have chosen not to reply to.”

“No letters have come to or from this house in all the weeks you have been here,” Lady Jane snaps. 

“Apart from the one that Harry Peglar sent,” Hickey says, and grins. Sophia lifts her head and stares at Hickey. 

_Jesus Christ. She can see him too._

“What was that, Mr. Hickey?” Francis says. He feels cold, something spreading out from his heart and running through his veins. 

Every face turns towards Hickey, sitting at the end of the table.

“Good evening,” he says. “It’s about time for us to start, don’t you think?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been fairly ill, so expect chapters to slow for a bit. But there's only a few more to go :)


	15. Sophia Crozier IIII

They file in, one by one, these shades and shadows and ghosts. The burned, the sick, the starved, the eaten. All of them to share their testimony; all to accuse her husband of grievous wrongs and wicked crimes. She watches him grow paler and paler until he resembles one of the dead men accusing him. 

Corbaid sits at the end of the table, as solemn as a judge. He nods after every statement, as if considering every rasp and snarl, weighing up the evidence. But no one will speak in Francis’s defense. She raises this, as politely as she can.

“Oh, I called for them, Sophia. But none of them would come. Lady Silence has her beast to tend to - it is sick from all of the dead men it ate. Doctor Goodsir might defend the Captain but he might have his own quarrel with Lieutenant Irving - isn’t that right?”

Irving’s face is ashen.

“John,” says Fitzjames quietly, “What did you do?”

“Oh, he murdered the good doctor,” says Mr. Corbaid sadly, “One of the best and kindest men on the voyage and John here stabbed him and blamed -”

“Enough,” says Fitzjames. “Enough. For God’s sake, enough. We know what we did. We live with it every day.”

“But at least you’re alive,” Mr. Corbaid says. “We are not. Trapped in our own last moments, an endless loop of horror and despair. It feels fair that we do the same.”

“And who are you to judge us?” Francis, moved at last to action, bangs his fist on the table. The crockery jumps and the plates shatter. “You are a thief. A murderer in your own right. A sodomite, a -”

“At least I am not a hypocrite,” Mr Corbaid replies, calmly. “Besides, Captain - you called us here.”

They all turn towards Francis, face now mottled with rage. 

“You wanted there to be a reckoning. In your heart of hearts, you wanted to be on trial for what you’d done. But you wanted to be exonerated, to forget everything and live happy and content.” He chuckles. “Unfortunately for everyone here, I am the one who came to judge you.”

“You -”

“Me? I always meant to start a mutiny. Pity I had to wait until I was dead.”

“Will nobody speak for Francis?” Sophia begs, suddenly desperate. Whatever he has done, it can’t be undone and the living need him.

Mr. Corbaid sucks on his teeth and raises his eyebrows. 

“Why do you ask, Sophia? Is it because you actually love this man? After all that he’s done? Or do you not want to raise a fatherless child?”

“He’s my husband,” Sophia says. She feels how weak this is and Francis’s eyes on her.

“Over half my men died so I could get home to you,” he snarls. “These dead men are on you-”

“Come now, Francis,” says Aunt Jane, who has been curiously silent throughout. “We all know who started this folly in the first place.”

There is a despairing groan from the corner. And there is Uncle John, pain and terror writ clearly across his face. 

“Husbands do terrible things, Sophia,” Aunt Jane says calmly. “Much of your happiness will depend on what you decide to do about it.”

Sophia turns to look at Francis. What is that expression? Rage? Disbelief? Fear? She wishes she knew him better.

“So what do you intend to do about Sir John, Lady Franklin?”

Aunt Jane smiles, a little sadly. 

“Go with him. Whatever his crimes may be - I suspect hubris is at the top of your list - I am partly responsible for. I have encouraged him, supported him in his foolish ambitions because I had foolish ambitions of my own.”

“That is very honest, Lady Franklin.”

“In the face of all of this how can I deny my part?”

“And you, Sophia? Will you go with your husband? Share his fate? Did you encourage him in his foolish ambitions?”

“She did not,” Francis says. “She was always very clear on that.”

“I told you that place wanted you dead,” Sophia says. Too tired to cry. Too terrified to look at the ghouls calling judgement down upon them. “Why didn’t you listen?”

“I did it for you,” Francis insists.   
“And so I should share your fate? I didn’t ask you to do so, Francis. I never asked you for anything.”

“You -” suddenly her husband is gone. Suddenly a stranger sits at the table next to her, a man bloated with anger and fear.

“Bitch?” Mr Corbaid supplies helpfully. “Where you just about to call your beloved wife a bitch? Or perhaps a whore. Although she hasn’t been paid so slut may be more appropriate.”

“The best of England dead for _you_ ,” Francis says. 

There is a ripple of laughter from the gathered shades.

“It’s easy to forget how much you hated us,” says Doctor Stanley. “Even me. Who made you all cannibals.”

Sophia closes her eyes, feeling the tears start.

“We’re drifting from the point,” Mr. Corbaid says. “We’re not here to discuss Mrs. Crozier’s guilt or complicity.”

“What about me?” James asks. “Don’t I deserve judgement as well? Every horror that Francis could be blamed for lies equally on my shoulders.”

“What about me?” Mr Corbaid has an ear for imitation. “Should be written on your gravestone, James Fitzjames.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Sophia opens her eyes, feeling a hand on hers. It is the burned man, William Gibson. Her skin crawls but she holds it tightly. As James argues with Mr. Corbaid, Gibson leans down to her. 

“It is not your fault he loves you,” he rasps. His breath stinks of burned meat. “Men like that can’t tell love from sickness.”

“What would you know about it?” Irving’s voice is sharp. “He doesn’t love you.”

“Unfortunately for me,” Gibson mutters. “He does. I was looking forward to my suffering being over. Yet here I am.”

“What’s that over there?” Mr Corbaid asks sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“Love and how none of the men in this room are very good at it,” Mr Gibson says after a fashion. 

The men in the room have the gall to look offended, apart from Uncle John, who is looking at Aunt Jane with adoration. Love born of longstanding respect and affection. He was a fool who loved his wife and dreamed of glory.

“I think we should sum up the whole business. How do you all plead?”

“I’m as guilty as Francis is,” James says, almost immediately. 

“No.” Francis’s voice is quiet. “No. I let it go on. I knew all the time what was happening and I chose to ignore it.”

“We would have died, Francis.”

“Perhaps we should have done. Go on then, Mr. Hickey. I plead guilty. I’ll take the punishment on myself.”

“And you, Lieutenant? How do you plead?”

“Don’t leave me, Cornelius.” Irving’s voice trembles. “I don’t want to be parted from you.”

Mr Gibson makes a noise that sounds very close to a snort. 

“Guilty, then.”

“If you say so.”

“Jesus Christ,” one of the spectres says. “What is wrong with you, John?”

“Mr. Hickey was always more infection than man,” Francis says. 

Mr. Corbaid tilts his head.

“You’re sick too, Captain. But the difference is that you want to be. Why do you think Harry Peglar isn’t here, accounting for himself? Or Thomas Jopson? Or my poor, sweet Solomon? They don’t want this. This was all you.”

“The sentence has been handed down, then,” Francis says. 

“Any last words before we carry it out?”

Sophia looks at Francis. _Please tell me that you love me. Make this count for something._

“I hope our son is a better man than me.” Francis is staring at her, cold-eyed. “I hope you find a better husband than me.”

“You’re going to want to close your eyes, Mrs. Crozier.” 

She does. Francis makes an angry, desperate sound in his throat as he is dragged from his chair.


	16. Three endings

There is only so much horror the human heart can hold; a fact for which Harry Peglar is profoundly grateful. He stares at the blood splatters on the window and tries imagining how he’ll explain this to John when they are reunited. Luckily they have a shared language right now - his darling calls it a dialect of hell - which they use to describe the terrors that haunt them. Over and over, they repeat them back to each other everything they have seen, like children telling each other fairy tales at bedtime.

Perhaps this was the reason he was spared. John and Harry never turned their backs on the past, expecting it to stay in the grave. Instead they invited it in, gave it a place at their table, until it was much a part of their ordinary lives as Mrs. Edgar’s patent remedy for toothache or the cracked china or the squeaky step on the shop ladder. Captain Crozier had tried to leave it behind but it had followed him here, _Hickey_ had followed him here. The man was tenacious, Harry thinks.

It is so strange to know things, really know things, in between flesh and marrow. He knows that Hickey and whatever it was he brought with him is gone. He knows that Captain Crozier’s blood in on the window and that he is dead. Strange as it is, he hasn’t the faintest idea what he’s doing outside the house. Did he go out for a piss? To investigate a strange noise? The last thing he remembers is talking with Lydia in the kitchen. 

A crash from inside. A muffled cry. He knows he must go in; he knows he must see what has become of those inside. He thinks back on dragging those sledges across the ice, of the sick men they took with them, the ones who died before they were all delivered. It is not a question of duty. It is a question of decency. And Harry knows himself to be good and decent and not just because John tells him so every day. 

He stares up at the house and sees black smoke pouring out of the upstairs windows. Lydia is screaming, somewhere; somewhere else, Jopson is calling for Captain Crozier. There is a sudden roar which is all too familiar. 

Then the flames begin to devour everything.

Another crash. He runs to the front door and pushes it open. Smoke as thick as Arctic fog pours down the staircase, almost like a liquid, obscuring the hallway between himself and the dining room door. 

One last thing. Then he can go home. Back to John.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Crozier’s voice. She sounds strangely calm. It is her husband’s blood congealing on the dining room window and her house on fire and she greets him like an unexpected guest.

 

“For God’s sake - “ Fitzjames’s voice. “Get to the door, Sophia.”

A figure stumbles towards him; he almost steps back but notices it is wearing a dress. Another form follows after, pushing it forward, forward, forward, until they are both out in the half-light. 

It is dusk. How long has it been since Harry was last in the house? Wasn’t it only just three o’clock? The clock had chimed three times -

Mrs. Crozier is thrust into his arms; he almost falls over.

“Take her away from the house, for God’s sake. I’m going back in - I think Francis is still inside.”

“Francis is dead,” Mrs. Crozier chokes out. “I reached out for him and there was nothing but -”

She stares at her hands; a half-mad Lady Macbeth from a hack’s Shakespeare. They are wet with blood. Now that Harry can see her clearly, he can see that the bottom of her skirts are sodden with it too. 

“You can abandon him if you want,” Fitzjames snarls at her. “I’m not leaving him.”

He turns and goes back into the house. They do not try to stop him. Instead, Harry takes Mrs. Crozier’s arm and leads her away, through the tangled garden, to the road. 

They trudge together, not speaking; behind them, the house screams and roars and disintegrates. Whatever is in that house is dead now.

Lydia, as it turns out, is not dead. Neither is the cook. Thomas Jopson, too. They are all standing in the road, just by the gate, dazed and blackened with ash, faces a grimy grey from the smoke. 

“I suppose we should go to the village,” Thomas says. There is no terror in his eyes. No grief. Just weariness. “I sent Solomon up ahead as soon as I smelled smoke. They’ll be expecting us.”

There is no talk of getting help for everything in that house is dead; with luck it will stay that way.

Harry stops thinking of the dead the moment that the village comes into sight. From now he will only think of John; how good it will be to be in his arms once more. 

 

*

That night, after everyone else is asleep, Thomas seeks out Solomon.  
“Take me with you,” he pleads.  
Solomon takes his hand, presses it to his mouth. His eyes fill with tears.  
“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

Thomas knows that tomorrow will bring questions, and then inquests, and then courts, and all the while they must lie, lie, lie. Once again they must stand on the shoulders of the dead. But he knows Solomon, has an understanding of what brought him to this place and moved him to this action. 

It is not quite love but perhaps they are too wise for it; love nearly cost them their lives. Companionship will be enough for now. Solomon and he; a strange pair, an unexpected joining. But they are here and together and free and alive. 

Tomorrow can come. Together they will see it through. 

 

*

Seven months later, Sophia gives birth to a little girl. Her name is Maria Jane Crozier and - although it is very hard to tell - Sophia thinks she is more like herself than Francis. People regard her as some sort of aberration; a new mother, herself swaddled, but in widow’s weeds. The first two years of Maria’s life will be centered around a strange, black-clad figure. Society demands distance between a woman of a certain class and her child. But society can demand all it likes: Sophia has a duty to the little bundle wrapped in lace and lawn. She covers that tiny face with kisses and tells her that she loves her, every day. Every hour. 

Occasionally she thinks she sees Mr. Corbaid out of the corner of her eye; a flash of red hair, a sly smile. But he is gone. Like Francis, like James, like John Irving. All dead and gone. Buried under marble and the weight of a thousand hagiographies. 

These days she concerns herself with the living; on finding her aunt’s journals, she discovered all the terms and conditions of the people she thought of as her saviours. And she honours those promises; fifty pounds per annum to Solomon Tozer, a permanent place for Lydia, and, because she is trying to be kind, a small sum to Henry Peglar. Thomas Jopson had thrown his lot in with Tozer; as long as she does not have to see him again, she does not care where he goes. 

Sophia had not spent much time with children until she had her own; Maria seems impossibly small and infinitely delicate. At a doctor’s suggestion she had moved to Scotland; the air fresh and cold and clean and much the better for her damaged lungs. And it is good to be away from society 

She has a house there; her house, that she chose. For her and her daughter. She looks at the horizon, where grey heather meets bright blue sky; looks at the birds swooping and calling. It is the future she is thinking of; a life centered around the living, not stolen from the dead. A life she has built for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even Gothic novels have happy endings sometimes. I'd put these characters through enough hell, I think.
> 
> This is the longest fic I've ever written, most of it at my soul-crushing customer service job.
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Other notes:  
> -When I planned this fic originally James was going to end up marrying Sophia but honestly they both deserve better.  
> -I lol'd when y'all thought Thomas was dead  
> -Gays save the day  
> \- Deal with your problems otherwise you get ghosts


End file.
